


The Annihilation of 221b Baker Street

by JohnWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Partner, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Violence, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnWatson/pseuds/JohnWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew only too well what unpleasantries were in store for him if he didn't act quickly... but he appeared to have succeeded this time. Getting Sherlock off before he had the chance to get violent seemed to be the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The blistering heat of your gaze scares me so

Anger pulsated through Sherlock, vibrant as a live wire, and hot as lava. It felt as if it were alive; a whole separate entity inside him, and it was mutilating him from the inside out. The burn of his voluminous rage devoured his entire being, and disallowing any reasoning or rationality he might have once possessed surface when he needed it most. 

In other words, Sherlock was at my most vulnerable. 

His brain was cloudy with my fury, rendering him incapable to focus on anything else. He needed an outlet, and fast. If he didn’t succeed in finding a distractive means to vent, He would probably succumb to a more self-destructive revenue. 

He simply couldn’t comprehend it, no matter how hard he tried. How could he have possibly missed it? The evidence had been right there, laid out for him, beckoning and teasing his over-inflated intelligence cheekily. Yet, somehow, he had missed it. Despite the fact that it was there, in plain sight, gift wrapped for him and embellished with a bow. 

Stupid, bloody, little ring. 

Of course, if failing in noticing the missing ring wasn’t lowly enough, it just had to happen that the ring was a vital piece in unlocking the answer to this particular case. Of course the absence of the ring had to be a key piece of evidence. Of course it had to be Anderson that picked up on the little unblemished band of skin encircling the woman’s ring finger, a tell-tale sign that she’d been married for a long period of time and wouldn’t have suddenly removed the ring for no good reason. And to put the icing on the cake, Anderson had only learnt to make the deduction of the missing ring because, of course, he had picked up on how to from Sherlock himself.

However, this wasn’t the only cause for Sherlock’s landslide of emotion. The anger had been welling up inside him for months and months now, much like a disease. Each time his fury almost won him over, he had pushed it down, much like finding a temporary cure for the illness. But now it had finally surfaced, and it was deadlier than ever. 

Every time he had felt truly angry in the last few months had built and built, right up to this spectacular outburst. There was no telling what he might do now.

“Arrgh!” Sherlock halted his alarmingly vigorous pacing to abruptly fall into his armchair, swinging his legs over the armrest on one side to leave them dangling over the edge. At that precise moment, John walked in. 

His dressing gown was draped over his shoulders, and bind looped loosely around his waist. He was drying his hair with a towel. Sherlock envied his ability to control his temper so effortlessly. His years in the army had probably taught him much about patience. John’s gaze fell on Sherlock. It was time, wasn’t it? John knew he needed to distract the man, and quick.

“You haven’t moved since I got into the shower, have you.” John stated rather than questioned, eyebrows rising into the creases of his forehead. Sherlock turned away, folding his arms childishly. John rolled his eyes.

“Well, when you’re through with the moping, there’s food on the table. I got Chinese.” Sherlock glared at him. John was fully aware to the reasons behind Sherlock’s distress.

“I’m not ‘moping’, John. I don’t ‘mope.’” With that said, Sherlock stood in one rapid yet fluid movement, and led the way to the kitchen. John followed, shaking his head. 

After dishing out the food, John and Sherlock sat down to news on the telly. A reporter was droning on about some sort of robbery…

“…Electronics store was robbed, resulting in over five thousand dollars in losses. Police have no leads just yet; though suspect that this was the work of a gang, although-”

“Well obviously this was the work of more than one individual.” Sherlock rumbled in annoyance. The police’s lack of competence was really getting on his nerves, especially after the day he’d just had. “The variations in the breakages of the display cases are blatant. One perpetrator was right handed while the other was left. Such can be seen in the shatter pattern of the glass and in-”

The telly flicked off. “Jesus Sherlock, calm down.” John had the remote in his hand. Sherlock suddenly realised he had almost been yelling. He hadn’t taken a single breath throughout his little rant and was drinking in large gulps of air like each was his last. “We all have our off days, Sherlock. Stop beating yourself up over it, it’s not a big deal. Besides, the case got solved anyways so-”

“No, John! It’s just- how- how could have missed it? Explain that John, and I might regain my rationality.” Were this a cartoon, the steam would’ve been pouring out of Sherlock’s ears by this point. “I need… I need to be distracted, John. Make me forget, and do it quick. Help me.” He shuffled across the couch closer to John. They were so close now their thighs were touching. John could feel the detective’s hot breath in his face, and read his irritation in the stiff contours of his body pressed against him, and see the fire of his rage burning in his cloudy eyes.

“Go for a walk.” John suggested, he hoped it wasn’t too obvious to Sherlock that he was trying to avert the inevitable. Luckily Sherlock seemed to take no notice, caught up with his anger as he was.

“No! A walk would let my nagging thoughts take over, flood my conscious mind. I need… something to take my frustration out on, something that would occupy my mind. And quick.”

“Violin?” John had often witnessed Sherlock putting his emotion into music when it became too much for him to handle, composing for days on end.

“Can’t. I took it to the store yesterday, basic maintenance. She won’t be ready for a few hours yet.” Sherlock grunted. John’s face furrowed in concentration, lips pursing thoughtfully. A roar of frustration ripped from Sherlock’s throat, as the man stood and progressed straight towards his gun, kept beside his skull on the mantelpiece. Sherlock’s fingers were centimetres away from the weapon when John’s hand shot out from beneath Sherlock’s arm and snatched the gun away.

“I think the wall’s copped enough of a beating to last a lifetime.” John proclaimed. He began untangling himself from Sherlock’s bony frame in order to keep Sherlock’s desperate hands of it, but never did he succeed in doing so.

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and jerked the limb forward, the smaller man falling right into Sherlock’s larger frame, gun hanging limply from his finger. John’s chest was now pressed right up against Sherlock’s back, and The Doctor was completely unable to move, locked tight in the other man’s grasp, utterly at his mercy.

Sherlock slowly spun, keeping a hold on John at all times, until he was facing the man. 

“All this time I was searching for a release, and yet it was right here in front of me.” Sherlock’s arms were encircled in a constricting manner around the shorter man’s frame, while John’s hands were placed loosely on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s hard, greenish eyes stared directly into John’s rendering him unable to look away. Sherlock plucked the gun right out of John’s hands, and ran the smooth – yet deadly – muzzle of the well-used weapon along the pale arch of John’s neck. 

Sherlock felt the gun tremble as John gulped. Sherlock grinned darkly. “Look at you, John. You’re so pathetically terrified of me it’s almost cute.” Sherlock placed the gun behind him on the mantle, gaze never breaking from John’s. 

John gulped. He knew what that tone meant. But he had a backup plan. He would just have to be convincing, and that meant going all out.

Sherlock’s hands wound themselves into John’s slightly damp hair, lips crashing into John’s. John’s soft lips melded with Sherlock’s hotly, John stretching up on his tiptoes to accommodate Sherlock’s immense height. Sherlock’s lips caressed John’s lower lip within their wet folds, teeth making just enough of an appearance to drive John wild and leave his lips reddened and swollen. 

John’s hands were now clutching desperately at the silk of Sherlock’s shirt (he had really meant it when he decided to go all out. He needed his stunt to be believable for it to work). Sherlock’s mouth broke away from John for a gasp of air, while John’s lips merely gravitated south, opting to map the contours of the pale column that was Sherlock’s neck. John could feel the rush of Sherlock’s hot breath mussing the hairs on the very top of John’s head. The room was permeated with the sounds of Sherlock’s heavy breathing and soft sucking noises John’s lips were making against Sherlock’s neck. 

He broke away to gasp a breath of air. John leant back a little to admire his handiwork. Sherlock’s neck was now embellished with a large purplish hickey.

“Indeed,” Sherlock mumbled, voice gravelly with need. He fisted his hand roughly within John’s hair, yanking his head back sharply so his lips could meet his. Their open mouths clashed hungrily, fusing together in a passionate dance. Sherlock’s hands smoothed down John’s back, until they sat just above his waistband of his pants. He altered his grip so that he now had a strong hold on John’s hips, and shoved him back towards their bedroom. John stumbled, gasping in shock at the sudden gesture, their lips breaking contract for just a moment. Sherlock, however, was gripping the man so hard he was bruising John’s flesh, and the smaller man hardly lost his footing at all with his support. Things weren’t looking to good for John. 

By the time their lips found each other again, Sherlock was roughly manoeuvring John towards their bedroom, shoving the man forcefully in short, sudden, spurts. 

At this rate, John would probably already be all bruised up before they even reached the bedroom. Sherlock seemed to get more and more violent each time.

After copious amounts of unnecessary manhandling on Sherlock’s part, the pair arrived at by Sherlock’s bed, lips still locked in a desperate embrace. John’s hands slip beneath the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, palming the smooth skin of his torso. His hands glided over the wiry yet firm rippling of muscle, fingertips faintly coasting over the small, erected nubs of Sherlock’s nipples. A moan ripped from deep within Sherlock’s throat, his hips pushing right into the cradle of John’s as he continued to play with his nipples. John decided the stretch of Sherlock’s shirt over his body and John’s hands was becoming too much, and bent to rid Sherlock of the confining garment.

Sherlock’s eyes were only for John as the smaller man popped open each of the little buttons of his top with his mouth alone, mouth attaching itself to Sherlock’s chest when he had succeeded in taking Sherlock’s shirt out of the picture. John’s mouth was slowing making its way south, leaving a glistening trail of salvia down Sherlock’s body in its wake. His hands scratched lightly up the leg of Sherlock’s inner thigh, before caressing the top of his thigh, so close to the bulge in straining the material of Sherlock’s pants.

Sherlock gasped, bucking desperately into John’s barely-there touch, begging for that little bit more. “John, John, please. Just- Oh my god-” John finally allowed Sherlock relief, hand slipping beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, the length of Sherlock’s clothed erection entirely at John’s mercy. His hand fisted around Sherlock’s erection, roughly working the organ at a pace he knew would drive Sherlock wild. And wild did it drive him. Sherlock had been devastatingly desperate for John’s touch, but no way had he been anticipating anything like this. But boy, did he love it.

His plan did seem to be working quite well so far.

“John, more, I need more! John, ohhh, please!” Sherlock begged. And more was indeed what John gifted Sherlock with. At the peak of each upstroke, John’s fist twisted around the head ever-so-slightly, rolling the foreskin with his fingers, eliciting a moan from Sherlock before his fist plummeted down his length. He knew full well that just how madly sensitive Sherlock’s foreskin was, and his efforts were indeed already having an effect. 

Sherlock’s hips thrust in time with John’s pumping fist, his mouth fell open to compensate for the laboured panting of Sherlock’s breath. His other had trailed over his balls, still encased in his pants; his fingernails scratching against the fabric lightly. Sherlock was rapidly being worked up to a quick orgasm; John knew only too well what unpleasantries were in store for him if he didn’t act quickly... but he appeared to have succeeded this time. Getting Sherlock off before he had the chance to get violent seemed to be the solution. 

Unfortunately for John, the detective caught on to what was happening. He could see what John was doing. He wouldn’t let John thwart him from what was rightfully his to take, there was no way he was settling for a quick little hand job. No, John was His and there was nothing the doctor could do about it. 

With much difficulty, Sherlock heaved himself away from John, gripping him by the shoulders and shoving him away. His head hung low, irregular gasps gushing from his body, the warm air tickling the bare skin of his chest. Sherlock was almost surprised with his own self-control. He had felt the warmth building within him, growing and expanding deep within his belly. He hadn’t been far away from the violent crashing waves of orgasm that would have surged through his body, and sent his very toes curling in pleasure. 

It suddenly touched within the realm of his awareness that John was calling his name. “Sherlock, Sherlock? Are you okay? Did I do somethi-” John’s speech ceased in a rather undignified squeal. 

Sherlock had John on the bed, and had the man pinned down under him. “Mine,” Sherlock growled. 

“W-what?” John squeaked, shocked and more than a little frightened. No, no, NO, it had all been going fine, but it seems John would once again have to endure Sherlock’s aggressive and increasingly violent wrath. He had really thought for a moment there that he had managed to get out of it this time, but apparently not, so it would seem. A shiver of fear ran through John.

“You’re mine, John,” Sherlock gripped John by the waist, and skilfully flipped him over so his back faced up. Sherlock pulled John’s trademark jumper over his head, his shirt quickly following. “Perhaps you forgot, or, more likely, you were asking for it with that little stunt there.” Sherlock growled menacingly, as he rid John of the remainder of his clothing callously. Sherlock sat astride John, the unsatisfied bulge in his pants nestled within the cleft of John’s arse. “Because only I’m allowed dictate how you touch me, or how I you.” The handcuffs were extracted from the bedside drawer. John recognized the familiar just somewhat dreaded metallic tinkle of the handcuffs. 

“Sherlock, wait-” 

“No John, I’ve had enough of waiting.” John’s hands were snatched up in Sherlock’s, but before John could attempt an escape, his hands were twisted and held behind his back in one of Sherlock’s large hands, as the handcuffs dangled from the other. “Don’t deny me from what is truly mine any longer. You are mine, John Watson, and there is naught you can even begin to do about it.”

John was too late. It had begun. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock had still managed to prevail. Once Sherlock was in this state, there would be no going back. 

John eyes fell shut in resignation, and accepted his fate.


	2. That which remains unspoken of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John jerked back into the present day with a shudder. Though he had recalled but a mere memory, the incident had shaken him, leaving him drenched in a cold sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This chapter is a little... violent, so just be aware of the tags and warnings, guys. :)  
> It's also in John's POV. Just clearing that up so no one gets confused.

John woke to the groaning of the pipes and gushing of water meaning Sherlock was in the shower. He blinked, once, twice, a third time, allowing his eyes to focus. He stretched languidly, back arching off the bed, arms pulled taut over his head and toes curling. His body seemed to ache more than it normally would. He rolled over in bed, noting how silky and soft the sheets felt against his body… yet wet in others. It came to his realisation that he was naked... and also rather sticky. 

Oh. Evidently it has been one of those nights. 

He gingerly extracted himself from the filthy sheets and stood himself in front of the mirror to assess the damage from last night. Even before he reached the mirror, he knew he had sustained injuries to his back, neck and hips. Even step he took sent sharp spurts of pain zipping through each of those tender spots. 

The man staring blearily back at him in the mirror was a riot of colour. Splashes of vivid purple-black bruises tainted his soft pale skin, and crusts of drying red streaks were smudged here and there. His skin was sticky with Sherlock’s come. His hair was matted, knotted and as sticky as the rest of his body.

He decided the best way to tackle the mess his physical state was in was by first sorting out the mental. He could already feel the tugging of the memories at the edges of his mind, threatening to overwhelm. 

He began with the mildest of his injuries. As he tugged at mess that was supposedly his hair, and prodded at the discolouration marking his face, he allowed the memory flood his mind.

John was securely handcuffed to the headboard, face down. Sherlock was sat astride him, he could feel Sherlock’s scratchy, clothed erection pushing into the crevice of his arse. 

“My little John. Look at you, all tied up and helpless.” The man gripped John by the roots of his hair just behind his left ear, where he knew it would hurt the most. John bit back a whimper. Sherlock yanked his head back, simultaneously twisting his neck uncomfortably so he could reach his mouth. John yelped, before Sherlock’s lips melded with John’s, silencing him effectively. Their were tongues slipping and sliding against each other, Sherlock’s teeth grazing John’s lips repeatedly until blood was drawn. For several minutes, nothing but the obscene sounds of their lips moving in unison permeated the air. The muscles in John’s neck were straining painfully, yet Sherlock didn’t let up his death grip.

John snapped back to the present day, shaking himself free from the unpleasant memory. He recalled what came next. He twisted around so he could get a better view of his behind. He wouldn’t be sitting comfortably for weeks to come.

Reaching toward the same drawer from which Sherlock had previously produced the handcuffs from, he now pulled out the object that he knew was one of favourite tools. Craning his neck to see, John drew in a sharp, fearful breath when he caught sight of the toy. Sherlock shuffled down John’s body, lowering himself so he was now sat upon the backs of John’s knees. But before unleashing it on John, he would want to prep him for it, like a piece of meat he was tenderising. 

John winced at the first smack, a timid whimper pealing from within his chest. A low, dark chortle emanated from Sherlock at John’s first vocal expression of distress. The second hard, unforgiving slap of Sherlock’s hand against John’s left buttock left the soft flesh searing. Again and again his hand came down on John’s buttocks, oblivious to how much pain and distress that he was already inflicting on John. John cowered into the pillows, eyes wide with fear as the tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes, running over his nose and dampening the pristine untouched whiteness of the pillow beneath his head. 

Sherlock temporarily let up on his violent assault to remove his pants. John could now feel the slickness of his bare erection on the backs of his knees, awash with pre-cum. 

Sherlock reached for his tool. “Are you ready, John?” He didn’t reply. Not verbally anyway. A small sob emerged from John. He knew what Sherlock held in his hand at this very moment. Regardless, he turned slowly, testing the already over worked muscles in his neck for a visual confirmation.

The smooth metal handle of the paddle was held in Sherlock’s fist, the leather surfacing both sides of the paddle, and the dreadful – despite their deceptive bluntness – of the studs embellishing one of side of the instrument seemed to taunt him. “No? Well that’s just too bad for you, isn’t it John, because I am.” Sherlock’s tone was taunting, the naturally deep tones of his voice causing the statement to be just that much more ominous and menacing. 

Without warning, the onslaught began. Each shattering smack was timed so closely with the next, allowing John next to no time for recovery. The pain was far superior to that of Sherlock’s hand. It shot through his bottom and licked down to the tops of his thighs and up the lumbar region of his back.

John didn’t have to look to know Sherlock was using the studded side against his already tender, exposed flesh. A ghastly cacophony of sounds permeated the air. The grunts Sherlock let out, coming in quick succession with each blow to John’s posterior and the muted sobs from the doctor.

John bit back his tears and tried to swallow down his sobs as best as he could, but the more he denied them, the more prominent they became. His sobs were just about choking him. The tears were dripping down his face and into his open mouth. He flinched with pain, jerking uncontrollably only to find his movement restricted by the handcuffs, the metal biting into his wrist.

Above him, John could feel Sherlock’s insistent erection pressing into his skin.. “Oh, christ, John, I’m so hard for you. So bloody hard, and I just want to fuck you right now, but, oh! Not yet, no, no, not yet. Oh christ John, you’re hurting, and boy do I know it. You’re so rigid, tense. And to think, I did that to you. All that pain you’re feeling right now, all because of me, oh yes John, it’s all mine, my gift from me to you.” Sherlock was positively panting with arousal by now. 

The minutes ticked by, and John could no longer feel each distinct blow. The pain was of such intensity, it was numbing. What John could feel was the warm tickle of blood running down his legs and into the sheets. Damn, the last clean set had officially been defiled. Each smack now rang wetly though the air, the paddle slick with blood, and sticking to his raw, mutilated flesh each time it met it, before ripping away from it and exposing the rawness of John’s flesh to the sting of the cool air of the room. 

Eventually, it all became too much for Sherlock to handle. A chorus of moans, each punctuated with a squeak of the bed arose from the detective. His own hand pumped up and down his cock hips slamming in time with his ministrations. Though the man had been leaking so much pre-cum John’s skin was already slick with it, more still dribbled from his cock, permeating the air with his musky scent. 

It wasn’t before Sherlock was coming, his cum shooting from his cock and defiling John’s back and arse in a white, stringy, hot mess. Blood from his rear end was now smeared all over John’s back into Sherlock’s release. His back was now a ghastly sight after Sherlock’s little wank, a mess of sticky bodily fluids.

John jerked back into the present day with a shudder. Though he had recalled but a mere memory, the incident had shaken him, leaving him drenched in a cold sweat. 

John used his guided his wary hands toward his rear end, delicately examining the abused flesh. There was not a single centimetre of unharmed skin to be seen adorning the curvature for his arse. It was but an angry derangement of reds and vivid pinks, a riot of mottled, maculated flesh. His hand trembled in horror as it peeled a loose flap of abused skin from his arse. The upraised skin came right away from the rest of his flesh, fresh blood oozing from the area. 

Horrified, he flicked it away. Hands down, this had been the most traumatic night of them all, but that wasn’t even the half of it…

Eventually, Sherlock set down the paddle, and dug through the bedside drawer for the blindfold. Upon finding it, he secured the scrap of fabric around John’s head. John swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. Of all the things Sherlock did to him, the physical pain he inflicted, the control he forced on him, and the restriction of movement… This was probably what John dreaded the most.

It might seem ridiculous to fear this as opposed the other atrocities Sherlock had already thrown at him, but prior to this moment, John had knew exactly what was coming for him. Now, he was bound, unable to escape, stripped naked, wounded and negated of his vision, completely and utterly at Sherlock’s mercy. It was indeed true that cutting off one sense sharpened the others, and John, already pumping with adrenalin and fear shuddered at even the most feather-like touch. 

It terrified him. It reminded him of his days in the army. Out in the night, the pitch black night, where it was easy for anyone to sneak up behind you and end your life in a flash, the stakes were high. In compensation, you learned to utilise your other senses to their full potential.

The detective knew how drastically visual sensory deprivation affected the former army doctor, and he liked it. Now, it next to no effort on Sherlock’s part would draw out the most delicious reactions from John.

Sherlock liked to save the blindfold for the special occasions. Things weren’t looking good for John.

Suddenly Sherlock’s weight unstuck itself from John’s messy body, and with a protesting whine from the bed frame, and a clutter of foot steps, Sherlock bounced out of the room. John’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, the sound of his own blood pumping so loud it made him wonder whether or not he was too young to have a heart attack. What was Sherlock doing? 

John wasn’t left in the unknown for long, as John felt Sherlock’s weight had settling onto his back once more. He just about jumped out of his skin when he felt the sharp stab of coldness against his back. The coolness of the metal was especially shocking due to the throbbing heat of his buttocks. The mottled flesh was still oozing blood. After the initial shock of the cold, John realised what Sherlock was holding to his skin. 

The doctor felt his body seize up in fear, similar to the way a helpless animal might freeze in the midst of a predator. All this time John had been trusting Sherlock to not truly hurt him. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t ever hurt him, he had always thought that somewhere, deep down in that unfeeling heart of his that Sherlock still loved him. But now, frozen at the feel of Sherlock’s scalpel on his back, he wasn’t so sure. A true jolt of fear shot through him. He hadn’t ever believed that Sherlock would be the one to instigate such a pure stirring of intense fright in him.

John shivered as the blade traced back lightly, his heightened senses pumping him up with adrenalin, and tensing his body up ready for flight. He didn’t even want to consider how awful it was going to be when that blade started doing some real damage. 

A breathy, gravelly, slightly… manic laugh erupted from above. “You’re so darn sensitive, just the slightest touch and…” Sherlock trailed the blade across his skin. John twitched. Sherlock truly laughed, deep rumbling peals of it echoing off the walls. “Look at you, I should have taken the blindfold out long ago.” His voice did sound a little… erratic, uncontrolled. Very unlike Sherlock. It was over excited, just a little too hyped up, just the way someone who wasn’t quite right in the head might speak.

Not good. 

After several agonisingly slow minutes, the blade finally made purchase. By this point, John was already trembling with fear, the oversensitive and tensed muscled in his back apprehensive of what was to come. When that blade stuck, piercing into the adipose tissue of the lower left of his back, he jerked with pain, hissing. The sharp movement however, did nothing but push his flesh further into the path of the blade. A muted huff of laughter escaped Sherlock. He was obviously concentrating very hard… which made John feel just that little bit better. Not that it lasted long.

Because now, that burning white-hot stab of pain – which was so intense it felt like the blade was going right through him, and into the sheets that lay below – began to spread. Sherlock was slicing his flesh. The tears began to flow feely now. 

Lashes of pain radiated out from the point the blade breached his skin, curling up and out, sending shockwaves of pain rampaging across his back, and licking up his spine. The pain also burrowed its way below, reconnecting with the former throbbing of his buttocks.

With the careful focus, dedicated precision and otherworldly skill Sherlock applied to everything - well, anything that managed to seize his interest - he carved John’s back. 

John had no foreknowledge what the man was up to, but applying his thorough knowledge of medicine to the situation he managed to infer that Sherlock was using the very point of the blade. This would create slender, dainty, yet shallow incisions. The blade would halt in sudden stops, run in straight lines, and curve intricately. From this, John concluded that Sherlock was writing something into his skin, not brutally hacking away at him like he had first anticipated. 

But was he writing?

Back in the present, John gingerly examined the markings, the pounding of his heart becoming insistently rapid, until it flooded his ear with their sound. He trailed his fingers over the markings, stunned that such light pressure tickled across his skin in pain of such intensity. For etched into in lower back now sat the words

property of SH

Prior to concluding his session with the knife, the blindfold came off. John knew it would be over soon. The light, though subdued was a blurry shock to John’s eyes, which had been squeezed tight for over half an hour. 

When suddenly, Sherlock’s clammy hands were in his hole, lubing him up. John shuddered as his icy, slippery hands penetrated deeper within. His hands moved confidently and with intent, making John recoil from his rough, purposeful gestures in such a delicate place. “Ah, ah, ah, no John.” Sherlock used his free hand to part his cheeks, holding him down so he couldn’t squirm. 

When Sherlock was through with that, he reached for something John never thought he’d see in his hands again. He had purchased it years ago, not long after their relationship had drifted into the bedroom. He had proclaimed that the tool reminded him too much of Irene, and it had disappeared into the bedside drawer with all the other toys, and remained there ever since. He had then moved onto the paddle.

But now, as Sherlock weighted the whip up in his hands, getting used to the feel of it, John just couldn’t handle anymore.

He didn’t have the energy to fear, nor the strength to speculate. It was like his emotions had short circuited from overuse. His nerves were utterly fried. 

He didn’t even flinch as the rope of the whip was wound around his neck. The leather was pulled taut to point where air became scarce and held fast by Sherlock, effectively holding him in place as any attempt to escape or resist Sherlock’s advances would choke off his air even more severely.

He was held so tight by the whip that his head was pulled back so far his neck and shoulder muscles were already protesting in pain, straining badly. “Now I’ve got something to hold onto while I ride you, my little horsey.” Sherlock growled menacingly before plunging balls deep into John’s tight, unready hole. 

For the first time that night, John screamed. A piercing sound that faltered before tapering off and ceasing, laced with pain, and a deep carnal desperation for this to end. The scream emanated from his very soul, crying out in suffering. It choked off into loud uncontrollable sobs that betrayed no tears, only pain. 

John felt Sherlock tensing and hardening even more inside at the sound of his distress. “So tight, John, feels good.” At least John could take comfort in knowing that Sherlock would be done inside him quickly, if his incoherency was any indication. 

Above him, the detective pulled almost completely out of him, before slamming in again with a grunt. Again and again he thrust in brutally, pounding into with a passion that was in no way pleasurable to John. Eventually his grunts morphed into a high-pitched – well for his baritone voice anyways – moaning, and his thrusts became erratic. John squeezed his eyes shut and steadied himself as best as he could for the end. 

“Bloody hell John, fuck, I love you.” And Sherlock was coming, the warm wetness pooling inside John. Gasping, the man pulled out of him, and wearily undid the cuffs before collapsing like a dead weight beside him. 

John sighed, body relaxing into the soiled bedding. It was over. For now, anyways.

“Lestrade’s got a case for me. I’ll see you at Scotland yard when you’re ready.” John Snapped back into reality, with the slam of the bedroom door as Sherlock made his departure. And that was it. That was always it with Sherlock. Their sex life was never spoken about outside the bedroom. It was like it never even happened. He wouldn’t even speak about John’s injuries. 

As John set about removing the sheets for washing, he wondered. It had been a thought that – though at the back of mind – had nagged him all these past years since meeting Sherlock. Well actually, naught but three had passed, though it sometimes felt like he had known Sherlock all his life, like he had been there with him even back on his days on the battlefield. 

Anyways, now more than ever he couldn’t help but consider what Sally had said all those years ago. He had dismissed the statement initially, but it had never truly been forgotten. He had been considering it more and more lately as Sherlock grew increasingly violent. 

“He’s a psychopath, psychopaths get bored,” She had warned. What if… what if she was actually right? Last night the little seeds of doubt that had remained dormant for so long had began to sprout. The dawn of a new day and gifted him with the ability to think with a clear head, and with a shock came the realisation that he was truly scared of Sherlock. 

Time seemed to slow down around him, his thoughts devouring his attention. What was he to do now? He definitely wasn’t ready to confront Sherlock about this, nor was he prepared to ignore the issue any longer. The only sensible option that appealed to him was to speak to someone. 

He knew once he did so, there would be no going back. But an exploitation of Sherlock’s trust was a risk he was willing to take. This had gone on for long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's got a pretty fantastically detailed memory, doesn't he? Haha. Well, I hope you liked it!   
> By the way *Hint hint* I love feedback! ;)


	3. And the silence ceased to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His days of being Sherlock’s rat were over. John Hamish Watson was back, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

After seeing to the laundry, showering up and dressing (both himself and his wounds), John hesitated by the door. He had absolutely no desire to be around Sherlock right now, even if an unsolved case was imminent. You know what, John thought, bugger it. He doesn’t own me. He pushed his way out the door and made his way to the street to flag down a taxi with refreshed determination. He recited the address for the cabbie, and soon streets and houses were flying by out the window. 

His days of being Sherlock’s rat were over. John Hamish Watson was back, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

\--- 

“John,” Sarah breathed, her face a mask of shock as if a ghost had come knocking at her door. In a way, John supposed that was what he was to her, a mere ghost. They hadn’t spoken in almost two years, let alone seen each other. John was just glad she still lived in the same place. 

“Hi Sarah,” John shuffled awkwardly, “I realise it’s been a while but… can I come in? I need some… advice.” My request hung in the air, an uneasy weight in the light breeze. Like the sway of a fragile cobweb, begging to be broken. 

“Yeah sure, of course, it’s just, um, -”

“Everything alright, Sarah?” A deep voice echoed from within the house, undoubtedly a man’s. Oh. It was now clear that that was the source of her unease. 

“If this is a bad time, I can leave-” I began hastily, but I words halted abruptly, for Sarah’s mysterious male inhabitant had just appeared at the door. 

“Stamford?” Now it was my turn to be shocked. The man looked much less the same. Well he had lost a few but was about it, really.   
“Do you two know each other?” Sarah looked very tense. 

“Yeah, I went to med school with John. Haven’t seen you around in ages, mate. Where you been?” Stamford reached out to embrace John. In his flabbergasted state, he complied. John mumbled some excuse about being busy in his distracted state. 

It had suddenly come to John’s realisation that he’d lost out on everybody who had once meant something to him. Sherlock had somehow managed to infiltrate even his friendships and isolate him from them. The man had utterly taken over his life and the fact hadn’t breached his conscious mind. There was no denying it, he was good. 

But today marked the end of Sherlock’s reign. John was going to take his life back. 

“Oh yeah, you got into that detective work with that bloke, didn’t you… Sherlock, yeah, that was it. How’s that going?” John’s flinched at the sound of his name, blood boiling in distaste. It was amazing how quickly his attitude toward Sherlock had evolved. The mention seemed to sharpen his focus; it reminded him of why he was here.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Um, Sarah I was wondering if I could speak to you about… something. In private.” John’s tone was hard with determination and purpose.

“Why do you need you need to speak with her in private?” Stamford was suspicious. I didn’t blame him. It was plain to see that he was happier than he’d been it a long while, and John was threatening his paradise. He would’ve been defensive too. 

“Mike, it’s fine. Do you mind going to pick up some milk? We’re almost out.” Stamford shot an incredulous glance at Sarah, before glaring in warning at John. His initial excitement at seeing an old friend had rapidly dissolved into seething suspicion. Eventually, his coat was whisked of the rack, and the man made his exit.

Sarah ushered John toward the couch. Sarah made off to ready some tea, leaving John with a moment to himself to gather his thoughts. The time was appreciated; John had no clue how to begin. He did know that it was going to be hard. 

It was never easy telling someone about something personal, especially something that he had protected from everyone’s knowledge for so long. Things just seemed to sound so much more drastic and awful and depressing when voiced out loud, but somehow always managed to conclude with much more satisfaction and peace of mind within the victim. He often wondered why and how telling people things eased the troubled mind so significantly. 

“So how have you been lately? We haven’t caught up in ages.” John jolted back to reality with a start. Sarah held out a steaming mug of tea. John accepted it gratefully.

“Well that’s kind of what I wanted to speak to you about...” John paused as Sarah sat herself down beside him, shuffling awkwardly on the couch to give her more room. “It’s… it’s about Sherlock actually.” Sarah’s face fell a little. She was clearly disappointed that after all these years he had finally made time to visit her, and yet it was centred around his own selfish problems. 

Though it was rare for him, John couldn’t bring himself to care. He needed an outside opinion. He had finally realised that needed help, and he wasn’t planning to stop at much until he had received it. Despite John’s selfishness, Sarah was gracious as always - well, almost always – and pushed her own feelings aside for John.

“Has something happened to him?” Her voice was hardly tense and grief-stricken – she had never cared much for the man, after all he had been what had come between her and John’s own relationship – but was laced with genuine care, not so much for Sherlock, but for John. 

“Well, no… It’s more of a situation between… us.” John met Sarah’s hardening gaze, regardless of the budding hostility he found there, he pushed on. “I… see, a while ago… Sherlock and I, we started, you know,” John gestured awkwardly in toward the Sarah’s bedroom. The displeasure emanating freely from Sarah almost brought John to a stop once again, but he didn’t falter.

“But, um,” John swallowed. “He, over-time, he got kind of… rough, with me.” Sarah’s enmity towards John had ebbed slightly, and intrigue was slowly beginning to burgeon in its place. Sarah was, at this point, utterly in the dark to what John was getting at. 

“As in… abusive.” Stirrings of realisation tugged on Sarah’s features, her eyes widening, jaw slackening. “I can’t really even remember how it happened… I really don’t understand how I could have let it get like this…” John swallowed. “Look,” He really had no idea how else continue. “I don’t know how else to do this so…” Words didn’t seem an adequate tool in conveying his story.

John tenderly loosened the uncharacteristic scarf from around his neck. His gaze was trained on the floor; he obstinately refused to meet Sarah’s blatant gawk. As the scarf was fell away from his raw neck, more and more of the deep, red, groove running around the circumference of his neck was revealed. “John… John, how?” Sarah’s was gentle, soft. The same tone she used when tending to her patients. “Rope. He had me tethered.” 

Over the next few minutes an array of shocked and appalled gasps emanated from Sarah as more and more of John’s clothing fell away from his ravaged skin.

The pink, sore, flaking flesh on his wrists stung as they were exposed to the cool air in Sarah’s flat. Sarah just stared. Very delicately, John began lifting the loose, soft fabric of his shirt that he worn very purposefully today. Even the slightest caress from his light-weight shirt sent sharp tingles of pain shooting through the damage site, despite the bandages swathed over it. 

John’s elbow wedged his shirt in place above the clothed wound, as he set in removing the soiled bandages. “John, come on, let me help you with that.” It was the most Sarah had said subsequent to John revealing his wounds. 

He held his shirt up as Sarah’s gentle touch ridded the bandages from his back without much further ado. John barely even winced. He did, however, when he heard Sarah’s shocked gasp. The last of the bloody bandages had fallen to the floor. 

A wordless moment of silence passed. 

John reached for his bag, and began re-bandaging the wound. Still, the silence endured. John refused to meet Sarah’s eye.

“John… you didn’t have to bring bandages, I’ve got plenty.” Sarah’s hesitant voice was like a rock plummeting within a perfectly still sea. The silence fell away in little concentric tidal waves. John waited a moment to allow the waves to settle before pressing on.

“I didn’t know if you were still in practise.” John had quit his job at he hospital after several months, and had had no contact with Sarah since. 

“I don’t think that that’s relevant. You can take a doctor out of the hospital, but she’ll never go out of practise.” They bantered on like that, putting off the discussion over that which needed to be discussed the most for as long as possible. They chatted away as Sarah finished up with John’s bandages, catching up on the years they’d let slip. All the while however, the air singed with tension, just waiting for its moment to lash out and strike down on them with its dreadful desolation.

Inevitably however, the pressing weight of John’s issues broke through the delicate barrier of false pleasantries. As their laughter subsided after a particularly dramatic recount of an incident at work with Sarah that had almost gotten him fired, Sarah decided to take a stab at the giant elephant in the room.

She gently took his stinging hands in hers, swivelling to face John. John slowly did the same, taking care to not jostle his newly-bandaged side. “John. How did this happen?”

“He had me in handcuffs.” Sarah stared at John for a moment. Her thumbs stoked John’s hands. She directed her gaze at the couch, but John could still plainly see she pitied him. “No… I mean this, all of this.” She gestured toward John. “How did you let it happen to you? How could you let him manipulate you like this?”

“I… it didn’t just happen overnight, obviously.” John shifted in his seat. “A few months after we started getting… intimate, with each other, we wanted to try something new. He asked me if I was into BDSM, and I said I hadn’t ever really tried it, but I was willing to give it a go. He promised me we’d take things slow.” 

John grimaced. “Sherlock naturally assumed the dominant position.” Sometimes John thought back to that night, and he wondered. Perhaps if he had been the one ripping Sherlock’s clothes off, if he had flipped them over and forced Sherlock to relinquish dominance, everything would have been different. 

But then again… it might not have. The next time, or the time after that, or even a few months later, maybe Sherlock would have affirmed control once more. He was sure of it. 

“Anyways,” John begun, breaking out of his reverie. “It didn’t start off anything like this. Our… bedroom escapades were pretty average.” Sarah’s features were set in the perfect poker face. John had no idea what she was thinking. 

“Gradually, however, that changed. It started off subtly, still not too out of the ordinary. A bit of hair pulling, rough kissing, slapping that sort of thing. I was totally okay with it.” It was strange to think that there had actually been a point in his life where he had enjoyed Sherlock’s domination.

“Then one day… he brought home a whip. I… can’t say I enjoyed it. I tried to, I really did, for him. But I was lying to myself and I knew it. I had wanted to tell him that I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but several weeks had already passed and I figured what the hell. It was hardly intolerable and if it pleases him then… why not?” John sighed. “Of course, back then I hadn’t realised that that was him holding out on me, it was nothing on his full capabilities. Over time, it just progressed, more toys appeared in our bedside drawer, yet I said nothing. I endured it. I figured, what’s a little pain when it’s for Sherlock.” John finally met Sarah’s gaze. “I trusted him to not really hurt me. Last night though… he just went too far.” 

“You asked me how I let it come to this… and honestly, I don’t know. It just- sort of, happened.” It was astounding that John, John the brave, strong army doctor had once again been reduced to a stuttering mess by that damned sly, deceitful, conniving man. And they he wasn’t even here.

The mask was gone. It was clear as words on paper what Sarah was feeling right now. She was horrified. She had tried to hide it. But it was plain as it could ever be. She was distraught. Tears threatened to spill from her overflowing lids. 

“John. That’s awful. Oh my god.” 

“It wasn’t too much fun, no.” John grimaced. Sarah shifted in her seat, looking thoughtful. Before she spoke, she reached up to wipe her eyes.

“I was thinking… it’s just like the frog in the frypan.” 

“What?” John looked taken aback..

“There’s an old cliché about a frog in a frypan. They say that if you put a frog in a hot frypan, it’ll jump right out, because obviously it’ll realise it’s burning. But if you put a frog in a cool frypan, and slowly turn the heat up, bit by bit, the frog adapts, but it does so so efficiently the changes are hardly noticed. Before it knows it, the frog has burnt to death.” When Sarah looked up, I knew she was not prepared for what she saw. She would never have guessed that she would need to.

Sarah’s own face spoke volumes. Her initial astonishment dissipated rapidly, softening into a deep amalgamation of regret, sadness and sympathy. She had never seen John like this. Not when he had told her painful stories of his past on the field, not when he spoke of his sister’s perilous relationship with alcohol. He hadn’t even let her see him cry when he informed him of Sherlock’s ‘death’.

“Exactly.” His voice was hoarse, weak. Two adjectives Sarah never quite imagined she’s apply to John Watson. As his lips parted to speak, a single tear trickled into his mouth. Sarah watched its gradual descent, transfixed. When the clear, glistening, sphere, reached its destination, she broke out of her reverie, immediately reaching out for John.

Another silent tear rolled down John’s face as Sarah’s held John. It had been such a very long time since he had been held in this way. The last recollection that surfaced of a similar situation took him years back, a young John sobbing into his mum’s arms at the death of his pet turtle. 

It was nice. The comfort of another’s arms. She didn’t even have to say anything. Just to feel her warmth was more soothing than any words she could have offered. 

Though Sarah quietly sobbed into his arms, John himself was much more composed. Crying in front of another was a feat he had couldn’t say he had accomplished for many a years. That itself was big for him, though his display of emotion was mild against Sarah’s. He let but the occasional soundless tear slip, his silence splintered only by his hushed gasps. It felt good though. To finally let it go. 

Moments passed, and time ticked on. Eventually the two broke apart. “You know there’s only one thing you can do right now. You can’t do to the police; you can’t charge him for sexual abuse. You know you can’t do that until you’ve very clearly told him no and he keeps going. And you haven’t said anything. You have to talk to him.” Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder, her face sympathetic but her tone firm. 

“I know. I think I’ve known all along. I just needed to tell someone first… because how? How do I even begin?” John sighed.

“Well… you just told me, did you not? And I knew nothing of what was going on. It’ll be easier telling Sherlock. It’s always easier to get it all out after the first time anyways. The hardest part is over, John.”

Somehow, John doubted that.

\---

“Good luck.” Sarah hugged him. John smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “Come to me as soon as you’ve spoken to him, all right?” John wordlessly nodded, shoulders slumped. He turned to leave when- “John, your scarf.” Sarah held it out to him.

“Thanks,” John looped it around his neck loosely, not wanting to risk irritating his wounds. “I’m not usually the one with the scarf.” John smiled sadly. “Anyways, thank you. So much.” John swallowed. He couldn’t express how grateful he was. But he had a feeling Sarah knew. She smiled. 

“That’s okay.” 

“Bye,” They parted, Sarah made back towards her house, door swinging shut behind her. But just before it clicked shut, a dreadful sequence of sounds resonated from behind her. Her whole focus narrowed in on those sounds, everything else fading to gray. 

“No,” She choked. This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t lose him. All their time together suddenly felt like but a fleeting moment. An instant. “NO!” She yelped. 

She whirled around, catching the doorknob a hairsbreadth from the frame. 

She ran outside. 

When she examined the chilling sight before her, she sighed in relief despite herself. The sickening crunch of a body and screech of tyres was not the one she had feared for. 

Sarah jogged closer to get a better look at gruesome scene, simultaneously whipping out her phone. Relief was still coursing through her as she rung the hospital for the stranger – the stranger who was much to skinny to be Mike. 

As she drew closer, but a glimpse of the man eradicated every ounce of her relief. 

Her phone fell to the tarmac with a clatter.

The alarming puddle of blood beneath the man’s body was still pooling, right through his lightweight, loose clothing and licking at his sandy blonde hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do leave a comment if you'd be willing to spare a minute, or even kudos if you are enjoying this piece. You can't imagine how pleased I get when a kudos or comment pops up in my messages. It does mean a lot to me. :D


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